


i serve at the pleasure of the president

by firehearte



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM dynamics, I am very sorry, M/M, Oral Sex, and this is very very very explicit that is a Hard E rating, it's a presidential au y'all, it's kinky it's so so kinky, we're pretending there are no video cameras in the oval office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26512702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehearte/pseuds/firehearte
Summary: Spot is President, and Race is his very, very dutiful Chief of Staff.(They fuck in the Oval Office.)
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	i serve at the pleasure of the president

**Author's Note:**

> we're doing things a bit out of order!! this is a small part of a much larger (and as of yet, unwritten) fic that @gracetrackhiggins and i came up with almost two years ago. this is quite literally just smut, there's no plot, it's just shameless and dirty. the only background required is: spot is president, race is his chief of staff, they're in a secret relationship, and it's all very angsty.
> 
> please be advised this is just... so dirty.

Race knows Spot has been on edge all day. He's sat by his side through countless meetings and briefings, watched him put out fire after fire, handling every situation that comes barreling his way with the dexterous, presidential grace that Race has come to respect and admire.

But still, Spot is tired, frustrated. Race has watched him slip closer to losing it by the hour. Watched his hands, so telling in their movements only to Race, the only person Spot’s let get close enough to read the signs of exhaustion in the clench of his fists and the whitening of his knuckles around the back of his chair, which he stands behind now, head hanging between his shoulders, posture tense, stress in every line of his body.

As the last person shuffles out and the door quietly clicks shut behind them, Race weighs the silence of the room. Spot doesn’t look up from where he stands, solemn as the call to serve lays the invisible weight of the world on his shoulders.

Every step is calculated, purposeful as Race moves to the center of the room. He keeps his eyes trained on Spot until Spot looks up, and sinks to his knees, there in the heart of the Oval Office, only when Spot’s dark brown eyes find his.

Spot melts.

If the sight of Race kneeling on the Seal of the President on the other side of his desk wasn’t a pretty enough picture, the look in Race’s eyes as he looks up at Spot makes him ache. Race usually saves this kind of vulnerability for the bedroom, for times when he needs to be taken out of his own head and be undone and made whole again by Spot’s hand. The trust and love and need that shine in his eyes pin Spot where he stands, and for a moment he’s struck by this bond he has with Race - the ability to know, without speaking, what the other needs. It’s with steady hands that he circles around the desk and comes to stand in front of Race, looming over him. Almost imperceptibly (to all but Spot), Race’s breathing shifts as he gazes up at Spot - reverent, wanting, waiting.

Letting him take what he needs. Letting him take control.

Spot meets his partner's desperate gaze with his own version of unbridled need (a smirk that he knows by now Race knows means _I want you too_ ), and lays a hand on his cheek, tilting Race’s chin up further, tender and soft and strong.

“What color?”

He watches Race's intake of breath, the relief that flashes across his face almost too fast to see at the confirmation that he did the right thing. “Green.”

Spot slaps him.

Race rocks with it, gasping, and a hand comes up to his cheek out of instinct as he bows his head. Spot watches his shoulders rise and fall as his breathing quickens, taking in the pretty pink mark on his cheek as his hand drops again and he recenters himself, looking up at Spot with pleading eyes.

“What color?”

“Green,” Race moans out, word a ragged whisper more than anything else. “More. Please.”

Spot grins as he’s reminded of just how badly Race needs this too.

“Don't speak again unless you need to change your color,” Spot says, and Race nods in understanding. Sometimes, he swears he can pinpoint the second subspace overwhelms Race - like when he chokes him hard enough, or fucks him at just the right angle. Or like now, when sheer willpower and domination overtake him and send him tumbling down into Spot’s waiting arms.

Spot takes a breath, rolling his shoulders as he lets himself slide fully into the role. It comes easy now, sometimes easier than he'd like, the familiar power rush coursing through his veins as he runs a hand roughly through Race's hair, jerking his head back and pulling him forward.

“Is this what you want?” Hand still in Race's hair, Spot yanks him closer, forcing his face against the growing bulge in his pants.

Race wastes no time, groaning deep in his throat as he licks and sucks at the fabric over Spot's cock, knowing full well that when Spot’s like this, the more depraved he is the better rewarded he’ll be. His hands come up to grasp at Spot's hips, snaking around to grab his ass. Spot only indulges him for a moment.

“Hands behind your back,” he orders, and Race obeys instantly, pulling his arms behind his back and crossing his wrists at the small of his back. He looks up at Spot, eyes glazed over with lust from the simple command. Spot smirks.

“That's it. Now, the zipper. No hands.”

Race moans, pulling back for only a second to wipe his mouth in his shoulder and readjust his position, figuring out how best to complete his task. Angling his head, he leans forward and catches Spot’s zipper delicately in between his teeth. Spot laughs quietly to himself as he watches, running a hand through Race’s hair as he slowly, painfully drags the zipper down.

“Good boy,” he praises as Race bows his head to follow orders. “Clearly you’ve done this before.” 

Race’s eyes flutter shut at that as he looks back up at Spot, waiting for Spot to direct him next. That’s when Spot knows he’s _his_. For Race not to immediately grab at his pants himself, for Race to _wait_ \- subspace turns Race from a desperate bratty slut into his needy patient toy, and that’s exactly what he needs right now.

Spot smiles down at him as he tightens his grip in Race’s curls, just because he can. “I’m going to fuck your throat,” he tells him, and Race nods, licking his lips in anticipation.

Spot eases his boxers down over his hips and pulls his cock through his pants, stroking lazily as he watches Race’s eyes widen. Spot arches an eyebrow as Race opens his mouth to beg and then closes it, remembering the rules.

“I didn’t mean right away,” Spot chides, and Race smiles even as his cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Absolutely no shame, huh?” Race’s smile widens as he shakes his head.

“Good.”

Spot steps closer, almost straddling Race’s shoulders as he lines his cock up with his mouth. Race opens wide instinctively, and Spot eases himself into his waiting mouth.

“Suck,” he commands, voice low, and Race gets to work, head bobbing eagerly as he laves his tongue on the underside of his cock. Spot grunts as he thrusts deep into his throat, eyes closing in pleasure as Race hollows his cheeks and sucks.

“Fuck, yes,” he whispers, hands tangling in Race’s hair as he pulls him closer, until Race’s nose is pressing into his abdomen. He retightens his grip on Race’s hair and pulls hard, a silent reminder even as he forces his head down on his cock that he’s not in charge.

“You take it so fucking good,” Spot moans, accentuating his words with short, sharp strokes as he fucks Race’s throat mercilessly. Race’s eyes water as he struggles to keep his throat open, reveling in Spot’s loss of control. “Take it,” he instructs, and Race whimpers around his cock, “take it, fuck, yes, fuck-“

Race gags and Spot pulls off abruptly, Race left gasping for air. Spot gives him a second, monitoring his breathing and then pressing back in, Race immediately taking him down his throat again.

“Can you breathe?” Spot asks, thrusting deep and holding him there. Race swipes his tongue across Spot’s cock in response. “Through your nose,” Spot instructs. “You’re not done until you get me off.”

Spot’s close - Race is nothing if not good at what he does - and Race redoubles his efforts at Spot’s words, opening his throat wide and letting Spot fuck him. Spot’s thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets, and Race brings his hands up to cling to the belt loops at Spot’s hips to keep himself balanced. Normally, Spot would punish him for breaking a rule, but he’s too close to care.

“You’re gonna let me come down your throat,” Spot pants, and Race moans, managing a slight nod in understanding. The added vibrations and the sight of Race’s eyes rolling back into his head are enough to push Spot over the edge, and he lets out a guttural groan as he pumps himself into Race’s throat. Race swallows every last drop, only allowing himself to pull back when Spot’s hands loosen in his hair.

Spot doesn’t think he’ll ever find a more erotic sight than Race sitting back on his heels, licking his lips and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Touch yourself,” Spot commands as he adjusts himself and zips up his pants, and Race looks up at him in surprise, still gasping for air.

“What’s your color?” Spot asks, softening, if only just for a moment.

Race takes a steadying breath and sighs out, “Green.” Spot feels a thrill go through him at how fucking abused his throat sounds. “I, green, it’s green, it’s-“

Spot grabs him by the jaw, forcing him to be silent as he looks up at Spot, breathing ragged and heavy and desperate.

“I asked for a color, not a pathetic begging mess of a sentence.” Race inhales sharply, mouth snapping shut at Spot’s words.

“Up,” Spot instructs. Race hesitates for only a moment and then he’s on his feet, staggering slightly at the head rush. Spot gently places a hand on the small of his back as he pulls Race close to him, a silent reassurance that he’s got him, that he’ll protect him, even in the swell of chaos and intensity that engulfs them. Race smiles at Spot, soft and depraved all at once - a filthy, angelic grin that says he’s good, that says he’s his.

Spot allows himself a second to take it in - the sight of Race standing there, hair a mess, eyes blown wide with lust, panting heavily as he stares at him, leaning into Spot’s hands at his waist and the small of his back like they’re the only thing in the world that can keep him upright. Spot smiles, and then takes Race’s hand in his, guiding him to his desk.

“Do you trust me?” he asks as he brings Race around the side of the desk. Race almost laughs, laying a hand on the back of Spot’s neck as he pulls him in for a kiss, euphoric and dizzy with lust and love.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Spot quips with a smirk. “Strip.”

Race’s expression falters. “What?”

“Down to your boxers. I want to see you,” Spot says slowly, making sure Race soaks up every word of his meaning.

Spot watches the telltale blush creep up Race’s neck as he cranes his neck to look back at the doorway, and then back at Spot. There’s a moment of hesitation and then he sets his jaw, looking Spot square in the eye as he lifts his hand to his tie.

There’s an air of defiance to Race as he loosens his tie and pulls it through his collar, and Spot swears he’s never loved a man more in his life (even if they haven’t said it out loud, even if it’s only been communicated in the joining of their bodies in between bedsheets, in empty corridors and dark hotel rooms. They’re each other’s, that much is certain, and every time Race drops to his knees is another silent affirmation of what they can’t say out loud, even as every kiss, every touch makes it unthinkably, irreversibly real.)

Race’s button down and tank top drop to the floor after his tie, and he tilts his head in challenge as he reaches for his belt. It’s with deft fingers that he undoes the buckle and pulls his belt through the loops, handing it to Spot wordlessly. Spot nods in approval and runs his hand gently over the leather, looking up at Race with a glint in his eye. Race steps out of his slacks and kicks them to the side, watching as Spot reaches out and lays a hand on his chest. Race’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into Spot’s hand, warm and rough and familiar, over his heart.

Owned. The word is louder than the silence between them, the claim on him (body, mind, soul) a clear bond that runs deeper than ideology, loyalty, duty.

Race lays his hand on top of Spot’s and owns him right back.

The leather slides around his throat effortlessly, and Spot pulls him in for a kiss as he buckles the belt around Race’s neck, tight enough to be felt but loose enough to pose no real danger. He walks Race back against the desk until he feels it against the backs of his thighs. One hand on his hip and Race takes the hint, settling down on the desk in front of him.

Spot sits and leans back in his chair, looking at Race expectantly. “Do I have to repeat myself?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Race immediately spreads his legs on either side of Spot’s and reaches a hand inside his boxers, already tented and wet with precum. Spot smirks and yanks on the end of the belt.

“Try again,” he instructs.

Race withdraws his hand and hesitates before going to grip himself over his boxers.

“Good boy,” Spot says approvingly. “Keep going.”

Race’s head drops back as he moans, relief at finally being able to touch himself flooding through him.

“Do you want the guards outside to hear you?” Spot asks, smirking when Race’s chest flushes an even deeper shade of red. “Of course you do. Shameless little thing, getting off to the thought of my Secret Service detail barging in and catching you palming yourself through your underwear like a teenager, on the desk of the President of the United States no less.”

Race’s hips grind forward into his own hand and Spot drops the end of the belt to lay his hands on Race’s thighs. Race’s free hand immediately moves to grip his, and Spot nods encouragingly.

“You’re going to come like this,” Spot tells him, rubbing his thighs as his gasps grow strained. “From friction and rubbing alone. You’re going to stain your boxers right here on my desk, while I watch. You’re going to feel it dripping down your thighs as you leave my office and go home for the night. And tonight, you’re going to fuck yourself to the thought of me, and come hard, again, remembering how you desecrated my office with your dirty, filthy-“

“Fuck,” Race curses, a broken, strangled whisper as he comes, bucking into his hand, orgasm not ruined but not nearly as pleasurable as it could’ve been. “Aw, fuck, Spot, I- mmm,” Race moans into Spot’s mouth as Spot pulls him down for a searing kiss. Spot’s hand moves to cover Race’s bulge, squeezing just tight enough to make Race whimper and shiver with pleasure.

If there’s one thing Spot knows how to do, it’s make Race’s subspace last longer than their time together. He bites lightly at Race’s lip, letting them linger there, eyes closed, breathing each other in, and then pulls back, fingers dragging slowly down his thigh.

“Get dressed,” Spot says as he pulls away, leaving Race a heaving, trembling mess on his desk. Race closes his eyes and tilts his head back, savoring the moment for one last second before he hops off the desk and goes to unbuckle the belt around his neck.

Spot steps away, giving Race time to collect himself. He turns to face the window, hands clasping behind his back as he resumes the role of the President. He can hear Race changing quickly behind him, buttoning up his shirt and retying his tie. He stares hard out the window onto the South Lawn, taking in the view that’s become so familiar over the last few months. He hears Race sigh behind him - another sound he’s become intimate with in the last few months.

When he turns around, the only sign of impropriety is the fading blush on Race’s neck. Spot smirks and steps forward to fix his tie. Race’s chin lifts gently, and Spot meets his eyes as he slowly adjusts the knot.

“It was... off center,” he explains. The corner of Race’s mouth lifts in a smile. He knows just as well as Spot does that it wasn’t - that even this little shred of aftercare, for them, requires excuses right now.

“Thank God you were here to fix it,” he says quietly, eyes sparkling in amusement. There’s something behind them that Spot can’t quite place - even if he can’t put a word to it, he knows what Race is feeling.

“I know,” he whispers, and Race nods in understanding. He’s not talking about the tie.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asks briskly, changing the subject.

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?” Spot asks.

Race shakes his head even as he smiles and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Spot sighs, looking down at his feet. “I did. Thank you,” he says, and Race nods respectfully.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. President,” he murmurs, and turns to go.

“Have a good night, Mr. Higgins.” The door clicks shut behind Race but Spot still hears the scoff of laughter as he leaves. He leans back against his desk, mind already wandering to Race tonight - kneeling on his bed, ass in the air, moaning Spot’s name as he fucks himself into oblivion.

Spot smirks. He can do this a little longer (and God knows Race can, too). Whatever longing there is between them, they’ve lasted long enough to know how to play the game. He’s lasted long enough to know how to win.

Lucky for him, he knows just how much Race loves to lose.

***

That night Race finds himself on his knees on his bed, fucking himself with an abandon only Spot can bring out in him. Even as he pushes himself closer to that dizzying edge, he knows this is a poor substitute for the real thing.

Spot’s voice is in his head ( _isn’t it always_ ), and Race’s free hand moves desperately to grip his cock as he remembers what had happened only hours before on Spot’s desk.

_You’re going to come like this._

_You’re going to stain your boxers right here on my desk, while I watch._

“Fuck,” Race groans under his breath, keening back against the dildo he fucks mercilessly into himself, letting the memory of the first time Spot had fucked him, hard and fast and selfishly, hiding from the rest of their team in the next hotel room over, overtake him as he nears relief.

_You’re going to feel it dripping down your thighs as you leave my office and go home for the night._

He had, he’d felt it sticking to his thighs, he’d been sure the guards could all tell, could read it in his face if not tell from the stains that must be showing through his pants. The visceral relief that overtook him when he got home and made sure he was safe had nearly made his knees buckle. And not even five minutes later was he undressing, climbing onto his bed and grabbing the biggest dildo he owned, impatient and needy and desperate.

_Tonight, you’re going to fuck yourself to the thought of me, and come hard, again, remembering how you desecrated my office._

“God fucking dammit,” Race moans, orgasm shuddering through him at the same words that had gotten him off only an hour before, reminder of how dirty and wrong this all was doing the trick once again. He collapses on the bed with exhaustion, not even caring that he’s stained his sheets, too weak and sated to think beyond how much he wishes he could spend the night with Spot instead of here.

When he finally summons the energy to move, he cleans himself up alone, and goes to bed curled around a pillow.


End file.
